Dead Men Tell No Tales
by Robin Purdy
Summary: After three years, Sherlock finally comes back to John. But why is John ignoring him?


**Something that I came up with while trying to make one of my friends on tumblr cry. Yes, I know I'm evil. I don't care.**

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The three years were finally up. It was safe now, for Sherlock to see John again, without anyone getting hurt. He looked him up in the phone book, finding that he wasn't living far from 221b. He also found that John was now married to a woman named Mary. His stomach squirmed in an not-very-delightful way. He wasn't looking forward to meeting her. He just wanted to see John, not anyone else. She would probably make cookies or something else _nice _like that.

He was standing outside of John's flat. This is where he's stayed. This is where he probably mourned over Sherlock's death. This is where he's spent at least two years of his life. This is where he had spent time with his wife, where he might have even started raising children.

Sherlock felt an empty feeling around the place where his heart was. He felt so... left behind. John had been living without Sherlock, he had made memories that did not include him, maybe even forgotten him.

But Sherlock needed to go in. He had to see John again. He couldn't bear not being with John for another second. So he took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

He waited for about a minute, but there was no answer. Could they be out? No, John never got out of the house earlier than ten if he could help it... especially on a weekend.

Sherlock looked for a key, and found one under the welcome mat (typical), so he entered. The flat seemed to be very spacious, and the staircase was a bit glamourous. Well, that was what happened when you lived with a woman.

He checked the kitchen and the living room, but they were empty.

"John?" he called out, but no one answered. He finally came upon a bedroom, door slightly opened, and he stepped into it, gazing around.

It was filled with toys, blankets, stuffed animals, a rocking chair, and a pink crib. He advanced slowly towards the crib, peering down inside of it.

A little baby girl was sleeping peacefully inside, tangled in a soft pink blanket, sucking her thumb. She couldn't be more than a year old, and she was very big for her age. John and Mary must be so proud.

He stood there, gazing down at the baby, transfixed by the small beauty. This little girl was John's. She would grow up in his care, and she would have wonderful childhood memories with him.

Suddenly, Sherlock wondered who the Godfather was. It couldn't be him, because he was supposedly dead. It made Sherlock feel even more empty inside. In fact, Sherlock had never felt so empty in his whole life.

The baby slowly woke, and batted her eyes sleepily. She looked up at Sherlock with eyes that were almost exactly like John's, and yawned. She reached up to him, and he presented her with a long slender finger for her to wrap her small, chubby ones around. She giggled, and white saliva bubbles burbled around her mouth.

They were in that position for quite some time, staring at each other, until she started to cry. Sherlock, not knowledged in the feild of children, backed away, panicked that he had done something wrong.

There was the soft pad of footsteps coming down the hall, and Mary entered, heading straight to the baby.

She picked her up and started rocking her back to sleep, saying sweet, soft things to her.

But she seemed completely oblivious to Sherlock's presence, which surprised him. Surely he would notice if there was a strange man standing in the middle of his daughter's room.

Mary put the little girl back into the crib, whispering, "I love you, Ellen."

_Ellen._So that was her name. He had to remember that.

John came in, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "What's wrong?"

"She had just woken up. I put her back to sleep. She'll be fine."

John had seemed to not change even a little bit since Sherlock had last seen him. That was good, right?

John seemed a bit startled when he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock half-smiled at him, glad that someone finally acknowledged he was there.

"What is it, honey?" Mary said, looking over at Sherlock. But she seemed to be looking right through him.

John rubbed his eyes again, then turned to Mary. "Nothing. Still a little groggy."

He turned to Mary. "How did you sleep?"

"Wonderful," Mary said, and leaned in to kiss him.

Sherlock stood there, surprised that they were both ignoring him.

"_What are you doing?"_ Sherlock called out. John lurched away from Mary, startled, and the baby woke again.

"What did you say?" he asked, not to Sherlock, but Mary.

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning to the baby and started to comfort her again.

"Uh, nothing," he said. "I just thought I heard… never mind. Must be my imagination." He started to help Mary with the baby. Sherlock was confused. Couldn't John see him? He did seem to hear him, though. He decided to tap John's shoulder. John jumped, and looked around him. But he seemed to look right through Sherlock.

"What's wrong, darling?" Mary asked, peering over his shoulder, directly at Sherlock, but she seemed to not realize he was there, either. What was wrong with these two people? Couldn't they see him? The baby had seen him wonderfully, but to these two, he was invisible.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," John said, turning back to Mary. (Sherlock thought he would vomit if John called her another fluffy, cheesy, nickname) "I just thought I felt something on my shoulder… must be a bug." He put Ellen back in her crib, but all the while he seemed preoccupied.

Sherlock, in desperation to be noticed, yelled at the top of his lungs,"_John, can't you hear me?"_ John turned to Sherlock, almost immediately, and now he looked frightened.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, mostly to himself.

"Hmm?" Mary asked, pushing a wift of hair from Ellen's face.

He kissed her forehead. "Nothing," he said comfortingly, although it seemed like he was reassuring himself, not Mary.

Sherlock, hurt and lonely, turned and left, walking down the stairs. Why had John been ignoring him? He passed by a mirror on the way out, and he looked at his reflection.

The thing was, he didn't have a reflection.

This confused him. Surely he would be able to see his own reflection…. But then something clicked in his wonderful mind. And when it clicked, a solitary tear ran down Sherlock's face, even though he could not see it. He didn't need to see it to know if it was real or not. He had just figured out why people seemed to look through him after the fall, how he was able to steal things from the super without getting caught.

He was no longer living.

No wonder he was able to "survive" the fall… it was because he hadn't. He was still able to walk and talk, but no one living would see him doing it, except for small children and animals. He was part of the dead, and nothing, not even his marvelous brain, could change that. He was suddenly crying even more tears, and he wasn't ashamed of doing it anymore. The damage was done. Maybe crying could even help.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and he looked up, still sniffling, wiping his nose on his sleeve. An old, kind-faced woman was standing behind him, looking at him with sad, blue eyes. She looked vaguely familiar.

"You have finally figured it out," she said. Her voice was soft, and he suddenly felt warm inside. "That's a long time, especially for you."

"I didn't want to believe," he said nasally. "I wanted to be with him again. I wanted to solve more cases. I still wanted to use my brain."

"I understand," she said. "I was the same way. Everyone is. I didn't want to leave you or your brother, but after a while, I knew I had to move on. If we didn't move on, we would go insane, not able to truly be with the ones we love."

Sherlock suddenly hugged the old woman. She seemed surprised and stiff at first, but she soon relaxed and hugged him back tightly.

"Welcome home, son."

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**Reviews, please! I hope you liked it!**


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